Seemingly out of nowhere, Indigenous art is everywhere. We’ve gone decades – centuries, really – in this country with barely any exhibitions dedicated to the work of Indigenous artists, but recently, everything’s changed. Galleries, museums and institutions across the UK are hosting shows by artists from communities in South America, Australia, the US and Europe at an unprecedented rate.
Tate Modern in London is putting on its first-ever major solo show by a First Nation Australian artist in July, with a Sámi artist from Norway taking over the Turbine Hall in October. There are shows by Native American artists at Camden Art Centre in London and Edinburgh’s Fruitmarket Gallery, while painters and weavers from the Amazon and Argentina are coming to Manchester’s Whitworth and Bexhill-on-Sea’s De La Warr Pavilion.
This explosion in attention is at least partly thanks to the 2024 Venice Biennale. The most recent edition of the art world’s ultimate taste-making event was a big, bold celebration of Indigenous art on a scale most western audiences had never encountered before. It was, quite appropriately and relatively humorously, called Foreigners Everywhere.
The usual Jeff Koons-ian glitz, hazy figuration, hyper-academic conceptualism and postmodern abstraction of the contemporary art world was swapped for tapestries from South America, mythological drawings from northern Canada and swirling, mesmerising paintings from rural Australia.
One Golden Lion, the Biennale’s top prize, was awarded to Kamilaroi/Bigambul Australian artist Archie Moore, who created a dizzyingly celestial family tree, detailing 65,000 years of ancestry in chalk on black walls – a near endless journey through familial time and space.
The other Golden Lion went to Mataaho Collective, a group of Māori women from New Zealand, for an installation of crisscrossing strands of fabric straps that cast interlocking shadows as you entered the main exhibition. Arguably the greatest accolades in art, both awarded to Indigenous artists.
Which isn’t to say that all of this attention and praise is a totally new phenomenon. “Australian First Nations’ art has been receiving international attention for decades and is no longer considered just a niche market or as specialised art,” says Kelli Cole, a Warumungu and Luritja curator who’s organising Tate Modern’s big summer celebration of the art of the late Emily Kam Kngwarray.
Aboriginal art and its distinctive dot painting-style first started making waves in the wider art world in the 1970s, and has steadily grown in popularity – and acceptance – ever since. Kngwarray’s huge, seemingly abstract paintings and textiles (also currently on display in a smaller exhibition at Pace Gallery in London) have all the hallmarks of what audiences associate with Aboriginal art: dots and lines in bright whites, earthy ochres and sun-drenched yellows, intersecting and weaving together to create dreamy, hallucinatory visions of wide open terrain and ancestral lands, or what Aboriginal people call “Country”.
For a lot of viewers, part of the appeal of Aboriginal art is the superficial similarities to western abstraction, but the work has deeper meaning. “The dot painting style is a sophisticated visual language derived from Country. It’s a practice informed by generations of deep knowledge, designed to communicate vital information,” says Cole. “For First Nations people, Country is not just land; it’s a living entity, encompassing spiritual, social and geographical origins, inextricably linked to identity and responsibility. Artists like Kngwarray visually articulate this profound connection, inviting global audiences to understand art not as detached objects, but as expressions of custodianship, belonging and a continuous reciprocal relationship with ancestral lands.”
Younger Indigenous Australian artists, however, have moved away from the more traditional approach of painters such as Kngwarray. “I have a lot of respect for the old people – their strong culture, their knowledge and their art – but a young fella like me doesn’t want to make traditional paintings,” says Vincent Namatjira, a Western Aranda artist whose satirical, political approach to portraiture has seen him receive both praise (he was the first Indigenous winner of the Archibald prize for Australian portraiture) and a hefty amount of controversy.
He comes from a long line of artists – his great-grandfather was the hugely influential watercolourist Albert Namatjira – and uses his joyful, colourful portraits to lampoon the wealthy and powerful, taking aim at British royalty, Captain Cook and Australian billionaires (one of whom, mining magnate Gina Rinehart, tried to have his “unflattering” portrait of her removed from an exhibition at the National Gallery of Australia last year and “permanently disposed of”).
Namatjira also uses his work to celebrate important figures in his community. “For me, portraying these Indigenous heroes is about equal recognition. I want to make sure that Indigenous leaders are properly recognised and acknowledged. My three daughters are all growing up now and I want them, and other Aboriginal kids, to be able to see these strong examples of Indigenous leadership, to feel proud and empowered.”
His political approach is one that resonates with a lot of Indigenous North American artists. Jaune Quick-to-See-Smith – a citizen of the Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes in Montana who died earlier this year – currently has a show at Stephen Friedman Gallery in London, and an exhibition due to open at Fruitmarket in Edinburgh in November. Her work combined pop appropriation, mixed-media modernism and Indigenous culture “to remind viewers that Native Americans are still alive”.
Duane Linklater, an Omaskêko Ininiwak artist from Ontario, Canada, with a show opening at Camden Art Centre this month, makes minimal installations intended to “create space for Indigenous presence in every moment”. Art, for many Indigenous people, is a tool of resistance, and a way of affirming their existence.
Claudia Alarcón is an Indigenous artist from the La Puntana community of Wichí people in northern Argentina, where she leads a collective called Silät, bringing together 100 female weavers to create colourful tapestries filled with references to animals and nature. There are footprints, eyes, trees, all arranged into stunning, abstract geometric compositions. Their work is on show at Cecilia Brunson Projects in London and the De La Warr Pavilion in Bexhill.
“We chose the name Silät because it is a word in our language which can be translated as ‘message’ or ‘announcement’,” she says. “For us, it is a message of presence. It is a manifestation, like a whisper, of the strength of our knowledge. Our weavings are a proclamation that we continue to defend our memory, our territory, united. Indigenous existence is constantly under threat. We are walking a new path, telling new stories, but all of this is part of the long-standing defence of our culture, which is always present. Always.”
Defence is important, because Indigenous lands are under critical threat from exploitative commercial parties, and also more widely from climate change. Santiago Yahuarcani – a leader of the Aimeni clan of the Uitoto in Peru whose exhibition at the Whitworth Art Gallery in Manchester opens this month – addresses that threat head-on in his work, with gorgeous, chaotic canvases that paint nature in a constant, violent battle with man, lamenting the brutal destruction of the Amazon, and calling desperately for change.
It’s an approach shared by Norwegian Sámi artist Máret Ánne Sara, whose previous work has seen her place a pile of bloodstained, bullet-pierced reindeer skulls outside the Norwegian parliament. She will be taking on the Turbine Hall commission at Tate Modern in October. “I fear the path we’re currently walking globally, as a human species, is failing,” she says. “The understanding that nature sustains life is fading from human consciousness. I’m trying to puncture the reality that we’ve been sold. I believe that Indigenous philosophy can offer collective strategies to protect life for the future; to rethink and re-understand our place within a larger system.”
Lumping such an incredibly diverse array of artists into one big, sweeping “Indigenous art” bracket is obviously problematic. But there are themes that connect these communities, and to an extent their art, around the world. “I see myself as part of something larger. I know there are other groups, with other languages, who are my brothers and sisters, with whom we share a history of struggle, and also of pain,” says Alarcón. “What matters most is to keep fighting for our rights and our memories, which are also the rights of our territory.”
Whether in Norway, Peru, Canada or Australia, Indigenous artists are united not just by a shared connection to the land and its custodianship, but by having survived centuries of colonial subjugation, capitalist exploitation and ongoing climate annihilation. Proof of their endurance will be written across the walls of galleries across the UK this year, in powerful, political and often incredibly beautiful art.
